


Of chocolate mice and little green men

by naughtyspirit



Series: My Life as a Fairytale [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bedrooms, Dating, Kissing, M/M, Morning After, Red Pants, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 20:44:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/891652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtyspirit/pseuds/naughtyspirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay, I'm clearly addicted and I wondered what would eventually happen on date number three.</p><p>Lyriumoverdose was kind enough to give me four more 'things' to put in this one. This time we're looking for aliens, Gummi bears, carrot cake and Christmas lights.</p><p>So, John and Sherlock eventually go on date number three. There will be wine. There won't be women and definitely no song. There may be several kisses and there is definitely a crime scene.</p><p>@@@@@</p><p>This is not a crime scene.</p><p>The pants hang from the edge of the bed, discarded after much tugging at the elastic waistband. They stand out, a bright colour against the cool of the bedsheets and there can be no doubt at all that they'd been yanked down rather roughly. The torn thread at the left leg hole is testament to that. There are damp patches against the groin, dark red against the brighter cotton of the rest and it's very clear that no matter how hard they've been yanked down, someone was enjoying the experience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of chocolate mice and little green men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lyriumoverdose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyriumoverdose/gifts).



This is not a crime scene.

The pants hang from the edge of the bed, discarded after much tugging at the elastic waistband. They stand out, a bright colour against the cool of the bedsheets and there can be no doubt at all that they'd been yanked down rather roughly. The torn thread at the left leg hole is testament to that. There are damp patches against the groin, dark red against the brighter cotton of the rest and it's very clear that no matter how hard they've been yanked down, someone was enjoying the experience.

There are also a second pair of pants on the floor. These ones look designed to glide over the skin and remain perfectly flat beneath a pair of trousers. They are well made and also clearly not from of a pack of three. Whoever bought these has spent time assessing the comfort and aesthetic appeal before purchase. They're rumpled and though previously uncreased, their position on the floor indicates that they've been drawn off with one determined hand and thrust away quickly, the desheveler interested only in the entire pants off situation.

If we widen our examination of this room, it's evident the current inhabitants shed their clothes the previous night with little thought to the morning tidy up. There is a black sock hanging over the floor lamp, its twin somewhere beneath the bed itself, not to be discovered for another two weeks. The blue jeans by the door were pushed down, stepped out of and remain in two slumped little tubes, the denim crumpled up and the hem turned in where it caught on a single leg. The shoes that go with the jeans are beneath, laces still fastened and a new scuff against the toe where the door was yanked back when _someone_ had to run from the bedroom to the kitchen to replenish much needed fluid.

There are also a much better kept pair of trousers half draped over the desk chair. Some effort has been made to hang these up straighter, but the attempt has been thwarted when the folder was clearly drawn toward the bed again and the left leg is currently brushing against the floor. Some concession has been made for the plum shirt that even now is creaseless. It is inside out but almost hung up against the wardrobe door. Its owner has abandoned it for now but is still mindful that it's a favourite and should be handled with care, especially amidst bedroom shenanigans.

Most unusual is the positioning of the grey t-shirt that is hanging from the edge of the periodic table. It's currently covering Boron to Noble gasses and though the owner of both chart and room prefers to have the information admired and always available, he will concede that on this occasion other matters are more pressing. He committed it to memory many years previously but there is such a thing as agreed art and his bedtime companion will remove it when he complains too loudly.

One of the pillows appears to have slipped off the bed, along with half the covers. There's a large expanse of unoccupied mattress on the left where both have gone in search of some warmth before the sun came up. The curtains let through a wide stripe of light that's hitting the edge of the covers and will no doubt disturb the two bodies beneath soon enough. For now they're both still and it's impossible to discern the shapes revealed by the thin sheet, save that they are still trying to occupy the space of a single body.

There are two pairs of feet sticking out the end of the covers where it's rucked up in the night. They're tangled together, left over right and occasionally fine blond hairs rub against dark and they change places. At the other end, a single pillow has been used for two heads, each owner used to having one for themselves. However, they are snuggled this morning and one will wake with the soft curls of the other tickling his nose.

The phones dropped to the floor have been treated quite badly. One sits face up, the other face down and neither have been turned off. When the first receives a message, it jingles loudly before settling down. Its partner vibrates less than a minute later and the lazy hand that slides from the messy covers pads over the carpet before either phone is located. A quick flick of the thumb and the message is revealed, read and discarded.

"Who was it?" The voice is low, sleepy and apparently in no real urgency to move.

"Lestrade." This voice is less sleepy but clearly no more ready to leave the warm sheets. "There's a body."

"There's always a body. He's a detective inspector. It's what he does."

"What he does is call me."

There's silence in the room for almost a minute and then...

"Do we have to go?"

"Can do. It's not urgent. The man's already dead."

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure it doesn't work like that."

"It works exactly like that." There's something of a happy rumble and the covers shift. "Now we can get up and no doubt resolve Lestrade's little problem before breakfast."

"Or?"

"Straight to the second option, John. I'm impressed."

"Just checking there is one. So?"

"If I really have to spell it out for you I must have underperformed last night."

The chuckle is loud, obvious and accompanied after a few seconds. "Not a chance. No underperforming last night or this morning."

"Excellent. Happiness all round?"

"Not moving from the bed until it is."

"You're terribly efficient."

"I don't think that's the impression I was trying to go for. I was hoping for wild and passionate."

"Oh, very well. You are incredibly wild and passionate as a lover. You are quite the animal between the sheets. I am overwhelmed by your sheer manliness and-"

"Yes, thank you. No need to take the piss."

"I wouldn't dare."

"Yes, you would. You just did!"

"Just teasing, I swear. All right, I'd dare but not if I wanted you to do that again."

"What?"

"You know exactly what I'm referring to."

"Well, I'm not sure. Given that I'm an animal in bed it could be a whole bunch of things. But if I had to guess, I'd say it was...this."

The room reverberates with a low groan but its owner grasps the mantle as quickly as possible.

"Hmm, well, John, as nice as that is, I actually meant...this."

"Oh. Oh! Well that's pretty damn...God, how do you make that...Sherlock, gimme a minute."

"You may have several. We're not leaving the bedroom."

 

@@@@@

 

Some of the tricks in John's arsenal translate very well to having a boyfriend. While by Sherlock's own admission flowers will not do the trick, a cooked breakfast served in bed would be a fantastic option, but he hasn't gone shopping and he has to make do with what's in. Still, toast, bacon, tea and carrot cake for breakfast is having a pretty good reception from a man who has to be forced to eat on occasion. No dieting ,but the risk of anything slowing him down is apparently scary, even when it's just digestion. John grins at the idea of 'slowing down' and decides that Sherlock is always an all or nothing person, refusing to live in shades. John is just fine with that and isn't about to complain at all.

He sets the tray on the mattress and climbs on carefully, tugging his t-shirt away from his skin where it's sticking again. "Dig in. It all wants eating."

Sherlock picks up his cup of tea and sips carefully. "John, it's nearly a midnight feast. If I'd known taking you to bed would mean this, I'd have done it earlier."

"I always cook."

"Yes, but often with complaint," says Sherlock and grins across at him as John rolls his eyes over a slice of toast. "Don't get crumbs in bed."

"Listen, compared to what else is in your bed right now, crumbs are the least of your problems." John polishes it off and skewers a piece of admittedly dry cake with his fork. "Lestrade text again?"

"No doubt," says Sherlock and stretches out, pajamas now covering the languorous form. He settles against the headboard and runs his thumb over his phone. "Two dead bodies now."

"They're piling up," says John. "New ones?"

"No," says Sherlock and arches an eyebrow. "Apparently this new corpse was killed before the first one was discovered."

"Nice," says John. "You didn't say interesting."

"It's not," says Sherlock and tosses the phone back to the mattress again. "They're just dead, John. No imagination, no mystery."

"He wouldn't call you if there wasn't something weird."

"And he hasn't called," points out Sherlock. "Texting doesn't count with Lestrade. No doubt there's some favour he wants to call in."

John crawls up the bed and settles against the headboard, the missing pillow pushed into place. "How come you owe him a favour? You got a bunch of parking fines you haven't paid?"

"No one drives in London," says Sherlock and tests out the bacon. "You _have_ been trying to impress."

"Yes, but not with the bacon." John jostles his elbow. "What's the favour?"

"Does it matter?" says Sherlock and sighs at John's raised eyebrow. "Fine. Someone set fire to all of Anderson's shoes. There were no witnesses and no DNA left, but for some reason our dear Inspector feels it would be to my benefit if the matter were not examined too closely."

John laughs loudly and drops his head back against the wall. "You burnt his shoes?"

"They happen to spontaneously combust," says Sherlock reasonably. "And no one can prove otherwise."

"Well you could," says John and dips back into breakfast. "But you're not going to."

"I don't feel the need to brag," says Sherlock and grins as John's giggles get the best of him. "It does mean we'll have to go and this doesn't sound better than a five."

John bites in against Sherlock's shoulder, his teeth making light marks on his skin as he tries to get his giggles under control again. His detective doesn't flinch but he does look down at him, eyebrow arched as John manages to meet his gaze again. "You're brilliant," says John and Sherlock grins.

"I did buy you a thesaurus last Christmas."

"You did. I wondered why," says John and licks the skin he's damaged. Sherlock tastes slightly salty, but the warm musk of his skin is still evident in the warm morning. His skin is surprisingly soft, as though he's been taking care of it secretly, moisturising without telling anyone what he's been up to. On the other hand it's clear that his skin doesn't see the sun all that often, which might account for the gentle texture. He's curious and turns Sherlock's palm face up, John's fingertips tracing the pulse at his wrist. "You're luminous."

Sherlock stares. "You're mocking."

"No! What makes you think that?" grins John. "I could have said you're resplendent or that you're clever and I'm pretty sure saying that you're penetrating is more of an action than an observation, but I have been paying attention."

"Definitely mocking."

"Teasing, Sherlock," says John and draws his hand up to Sherlock's neck, finding the pulse there before he leans in and presses his lips against it. "I told you that you're brilliant before we started being...whatever it is we are now."

"Lovers," says Sherlock and with a decisive move he reaches for the tray and puts it down on the floor. He runs his thumb over the phone and fires off a quick text before the phone too is dispensed with. He reaches for the slice of cake John's still holding and drops that to the plate. "There are no crumbs in this bed, John."

"Rule or suggestion?"

"Suggestion," says Sherlock and reaches for the sheets, tossing those to the floor before he leans in against John and draws his fingertips along his doctor's collarbone. He lowers his head, lips grazing the bit that makes John hitch in a breath and he grins against the feathery skin. "Lestrade is expecting us in one hour. Can you be wild, passionate and efficient, John?"

John doesn't answer, but his arms are strong and his hands are insistent. A solid military man like this is capable of almost anything and his skin glides over Sherlock's own as he presses him back against the sheets. His mouth is hot as it brushes against each sensitive point of Sherlock's chest and his thighs slip alongside. He stares down at Sherlock, the weight of his gaze heavy and apparently heating the atmosphere. "I'm all of that," he says. "And I'm very good, to boot."

"Fascinating," says Sherlock and slides a hand to John's hip and tugs. "Show me."

John is nothing if not good at following a direct order.

 

@@@@@

 

The case itself is nowhere near a five. It's barely a four and Sherlock quite clearly resents every second of it, his tongue lashing anyone foolish enough to come close. Any case that drags him from his sanctuary and cannot compensate for the leave is always treated thus. Today, however, nothing appears to come close to satisfying and John finds himself apologising more than usual. He doesn't make any excuses for the man and barely holds his tongue when Donovan makes more noise than usual.

This is not the place to discuss the change in their circumstance, although after a particularly brilliant comment John does feel the urge to nudge someone and point out that he's sleeping with this genius. He doesn't say it, though, aware that work and pleasure are different and that the only real risk here is that one of Lestrade's officers will say something stupid. He's never liked bullies and has always acknowledged that Sherlock deals with them on his own terms. That hasn't changed, but his fingers curl into a fist at the sniggering he hears from some of them as Sherlock reaches up to touch the ceiling. He turns his head slightly, ready to move, but Sherlock is instantly at his side, mouth pressed close to his ear.

"They don't matter," he says. "Don't shoot them. There'll be an inquiry."

"They're dicks," says John and tries to unclench his fingers. "And they're rude."

"They're also stupid," says Sherlock and raises his voice as he gestures to Lestrade. "If this is all you've got to show me, we're leaving."

Lestrade walks over, frowning at the attention Sherlock's dismissal is causing. "You haven't told me who did this. You can't go yet."

"Let 'em go, sir," says Donovan. "It's just a domestic, like we said."

"A domestic?" asks John and points at the nearest body, one foot still outside the sheet that covers the rest of it. "That man is naked. And green!"

"Painted green," says Sherlock. "By his wife, as we've already established."

"Right," says Lestrade and glances back at his notebook. "We've got her statement. Says he was going to some kind of special interest group he was a part of. They were having a party."

"A green group?" asks John and sticks his hands in his pockets, fingers relaxing. "Hope it wasn't every week. Can you imagine how long it took to paint all of him?"

"Three and a half hours," says Sherlock and keeps his eyes on Lestrade. "Not something you'd willingly do for your loved one if you were having a domestic."

"What'd you know about that?" sneers Donovan and turns back to Lestrade. "I say she painted him up, went for a drink with her mates and when she came home and found him and the other one together, she lost control, picked up something sharp and stabbed them both. Open and shut."

"Oh, of course, what was I thinking? Of course that's the way it happened," says Sherlock and holds Sally's gaze before he flicks back to the inspector again. "Oh no, wait, it can't have been what happened because this badly painted green man froze to death in the loft and this one," he says and kicks the bare green toe of the nearest body, "was killed when he opened the loft door and the body fell out, breaking the handle off in the process and impaling him. He managed to drag the handle from his chest and fling it under the bureau. He tried to get hold of his phone to call for help but unfortunately the body on top of him prevented that and he died in here."

He bends down and pushes the carpet back beneath the bureau, drawing out the offending and still bloodied handle. "Really, Inspector, I thought you said your men were thorough."

"They said they were," growls Lestrade and turns. "Get this fucking area secured. The bloody murder weapon was right here and you pillocks missed it!"

Donovan hasn't stopped staring at Sherlock. "So why would he be in the loft?" she asks. "What was he doing there?"

"Mr Hawkins had a very expensive telescope," says Sherlock. "And Mr Hopkins intended to steal it, sneaking out by wearing a similar paint job, although his is poorly applied. Unfortunately he hadn't accounted for the temperature dropping while he was next to naked and so died of exposure." He flips his phone out and locates the web site. "Both were members of the East Finchley Extraterrestrial Society. Mr Hopkins was the treasurer. Seems they're rather in debt and the telescope would have solved their problems for some time."

She stares at him and turns on her heel, barking out orders to get away from Sherlock and his deductions. Donovan doesn't like him, never will and each explanation only goes to prove that Sherlock isn't like other men. She looks back over her shoulder as they start to move. "Takes a freak to know one."

"Donovan, why don't you just fuck off," says John and turns his back on her to look at Sherlock. "I know I've said it before and you're bored of hearing it, but that? That right there, was brilliant."

Sherlock draws his eyes away from Donovan's slightly shocked features and looks back at John. "Actually, I don't mind at all. It's quite nice."

"Good," says John and nods before he urges Sherlock down the stairs, past Donovan and the rest of Lestrade's people. The Inspector pulls away from his conversation as they start to head down the path and catches John's arm.

"Hey, thanks for that," he says with a nod to Sherlock. "Little green men, who'd have believed?"

"East Finchley's Extraterrestrial Society?" asks John and nods toward the street ahead as Sherlock stalks ahead and tries to flag down a cab. "We'll just be off then."

"Wait, I was going to say, couple of the lads are heading over to the Bald Faced Stag, later. You fancy joining us for a couple?"

"Ah," says John and shakes his head. "Not tonight."

"Come on, it'll be a laugh," says Lestrade. "You can tell us all about that Pharmacist you're seeing."

"It's off," says John and keeps an eye on how Sherlock's getting on. "We broke it off."

"Commiserations," says Lestrade and frowns at where John's looking. "Got sick of him, did she?"

"Sort of," says John and shakes his head. "Sick of me, actually. Look, I've got to go."

He moves to catch up with his boyfriend but Lestrade hasn't quite let go of his arm. "Everything all right?"

"Yeah, it's fine," says John. "Good, actually, but I have to go. He needs me."

Lestade nods and lets go, his hand dropping to his phone as he considers. "Look, I know this might be a bit soon, but my wife's got this dinner party happening and there's this friend. I don't suppose you fancy making up a six, do you?"

John stares at him before he hears the sound of a cab ahead. He just knows Sherlock will only wait so long and doesn't intend to let the man get away. "Not this time," says. "Sorry."

"She's really pretty," says Lestrade. "Got her own bakery. Nice girl. You'll like her."

"No, sorry," says John and steps toward the cab. "I can't. I'm with someone."

"I thought you said-"

"Someone else," says John and reaches for the door before Sherlock can close it. "It's a bit complicated."

Lestrade stares until Sherlock reaches out and grabs John by the arm and draws him in. "We're even now, Detective Inspector. And I'm taking John home."

John grins, his shoulders shrugging before he climbs inside. He looks at the way Sherlock's leaning against the glass, all angles and beatific grace and the overwhelming sense of belonging hits him hard. He has this to go home to and this to play with. His life, odd and frantic and confusing as it is, has a delicious purpose. The man took him to Copenhagen for his first date, for goodness sake. A man like that isn't a bit of a complication at all and he draws down the window and leans out.

Lestrade is still standing there, though he's now talking to someone in a zip up suit and John has to whistle to get his attention. "Oi, Greg!" He smiles as he gestures inside the cab. "Can't do a dinner party. I'm with Sherlock."

Greg stares and then cups his hands over his mouth to call. "That's why you can't keep a girlfriend!"

"No, I mean I'm _with_ Sherlock," says John and then shakes his head as Lestrade frowns. " _With_ him."

Lestrade either can't hear or doesn't believe what he is hearing and he frowns as he tries to catch up. But before John can open his mouth again, Sherlock leans forward and settles his hand over John's. " **I'm** his boyfriend," he says casually and sits back against the seat again as the driver pulls away from the kerb. "Really, John. You do seem to have a problem expressing yourself. The word isn't complicated. Boyfriend. Two syllables, just like lover, which you also seem to be struggling with."

John blinks at him and slowly hitches in a breath. "You never said anything before, when we weren't and people assumed."

"Because their assumptions were no concern of mine."

"Yeah, but they were making me feel uncomfortable," points out John. "And you didn't say anything. Now you're telling everyone."

"I've told Mrs Hudson and you were in the middle of trying to tell Inspector Lestrade. I merely clarified what you were struggling with." Sherlock pauses and looks back at John. "Are you having an identify crisis?"

"What? No!" John shakes his head hard enough to see spots. "It's just that when people were saying all sorts of things about us being involved and us being a couple you didn't even seem to notice. And now you're right there, saying you're my boyfriend and I don't know what to make of it."

Sherlock nods and then casually slides his hand over John's knee. "I haven't had a boyfriend before," says and then rolls his eyes at John's raised eyebrow. "Lovers, yes, but never a boyfriend." He smiles. "So far, it's very interesting."

John stares until his eyeballs feel dry and he blinks slowly. "Am I an experiment?"

"No," says Sherlock. "You're something else."

"Your boyfriend?"

"Exactly," says Sherlock. "And since you never cease to surprise me: today's identity crisis is a case in point, I have no doubt we'll continue until one of us dies."

"That's really," John licks his bottom lip. "Reassuring. Are you saying till death do us part?"

"Are you proposing?"

John laughs loudly and leans in to kiss his bewildering detective. "No," he says. "Not yet. I think we should have a third date before we even think about that."

"Doesn't this count as a third date?" asks Sherlock. "I did bring you to an investigation and it was only a five."

"I thought you said it was a four."

"I upgraded it," says Sherlock. "Green paint, John. How did they miss that it was a poor match?"

"I have no idea," says John and leans in closer, his lips brushing against Sherlock's neck. "I'm still not proposing and that wasn't a date."

"Well, since you aren't very good at planning and don't have my panache, I'll take responsibility for our next date."

"No," says John firmly. "I'll do it. I'll...I don't know what I'll do, but I'll do it." He grins at Sherlock. "Put your best suit on. I'm taking you out for dinner."

 

@@@@@

 

Angelo is more than obliging and though it's not a fancy restaurant of any kind, it's close to home, welcoming and John is happy enough to walk inside and pick out a slightly more intimate table. He's suited and booted and doesn't mind at all that Sherlock is only just walking through the door, not when John's managed to find some semblance of what he considers to be a date.

He stands as Angelo greets the man and walks him over to the table. There's a lit red candle in the middle that Sherlock glances at with a smile and John's ready with a glass of something special to mark the occasion.

"You look good," he says and Sherlock glances down at himself.

"Yes," he says and takes the proffered glass. "I'm already impressed, John. You've managed to persuade Angelo to break into that cellar of his and dust off the wine bottles without Tesco labels."

John clears his throat. "He's been really nice. Anything we want and he'll cook it."

"So long as it's pasta based," says Sherlock and sits down opposite John as he glances at their surroundings. "You've chosen this carefully."

"Yeah," says John. "It's his best table."

"Perfectly situated between the kitchen and the entrance, away from the windows on the street but with a view of the inner courtyard and opposite the bathroom..." He smiles. "Yes, it is the best table, John. Very thoughtful."

"Thank you."

"Except for the Christmas lights round the window. Does the man never take them down?"

John turns to look and catches Sherlock's grinning reflection in the glass. He straightens his tie and turns back to his date again, one hand across the table to touch Sherlock's rather more slender fingers. "I think it's pretty," he says. "And it frames your reflection."

"But you can see me like this."

John takes a quick breath and smiles. "Sherlock, I'm trying to be romantic."

"Yes, I can see that. There's a candle."

"Romance is more than candles, Sherlock." John strokes his fingers over the back of Sherlock's hand. "It's about doing things because you know they'll make the other person happy."

Sherlock nods. "I know all of that," he points out. "My date went very well. You were the one with the planning issues."

John runs his tongue over his front teeth and tries again. "And it was great, it really was, but I want to show you that I can be romantic."

"You often do things just to please me," says Sherlock. "Not always, or I wouldn't have to keep moving my experiments out of the fridge." He looks across the table. "You could always-"

"No, Sherlock. Just no. I'm not making a permanent space in the fridge for a head." He licks his bottom lip and keeps hold of Sherlock's hand. "What I'm trying to say is that you and me, well, you were right about what you said before."

"Of course I was," says Sherlock and catches his bottom lip between his teeth as he considers John's words. "Which time in particular?"

"When you said," John turns Sherlock's hand over and draws his fingertips along his palm until the fingers curve in toward the centre. "That you find this interesting and you don't see any reason why it won't," he clears his throat, "continue like that. Forever, I mean."

Sherlock nods. "So it is a proposal."

"No, no, I'm not proposing but I am," John takes a quick breath and looks very clearly at Sherlock, eyes very much focused on Sherlock's own. "I am saying that you're right and that I want to be with you as long as I'm here."

"As long as you live?" asks Sherlock and grins as John nods. "That _does_ deserve a drink."

"A toast," says John and clears his throat. "To us, because I," he nods his head and tries again. "Because I love you. I think I always have and I certainly intend that I always will be. So...there we are."

Sherlock tips his glass against John's own and nods. They drink and Sherlock closes his hand over John's, running his thumb over the mount of venus. "Point made," he says quietly. "You are quite the romantic."

"I try," says John and grins before he catches sight of Angelo over Sherlock's shoulder. "What the fuck is that?"

"Hmm?" asks Sherlock and turns his head as Angelo walks out of the kitchen to display his latest culinary experiment to the world. Sherlock sighs and turns back to John. "It won't work."

"It's a Gummi bear," says John. "It's a foot high Gummi bear. What in the name of arse is Angelo doing with a foot high Gummi bear?"

"He's trying to enter it for the world record," says Sherlock and tastes the wine. "It won't work. The largest Gummi bear on record is at least seventeen inches tall and dwarfs that one. And I have no idea why you'd want to eat it since it's a waste of calories."

John frowns as the strangely gelatinous bear is displayed to the cheers and applause of the restaurant. "I used to like them, the little ones anyway." He looks back at his date and shakes his head. "Don't say anything to him."

"Wouldn't dream of it," says Sherlock and turns lightly as Angelo approaches. "Wouldn't want to lose our table, would we?"

Angelo walks over, having handed his trophy to one of the waitresses and beams at the pair of them. "Ah, my favourite customers."

"Evening, Angelo," says John. "Nice table."

"For you and Mr Holmes, only the best," says Angelo and claps a hand down on Sherlock's shoulder. "Anything you want. You just ask."

"Whatever John orders," says Sherlock and, following a warning noise from John, sits up straighter and smiles. "I'll have the same."

"Excellent, you boys can have whatever you like."

He scurries off, leaving them both alone again, and for John it's the closest thing to a date before he decided to become Sherlock's. The food, when it arrives, is good and Sherlock tucks in, eating more in one sitting than John's seen him do for a long while. He eats with gusto and John can't help wondering if it's because Sherlock is finally off the case and simultaneously amused enough that he isn't tearing the walls down. If it's true, (and he really hopes that it is true) then John is in the unique position of managing to distract the man by just being himself.

He grins and Sherlock catches him at it, expression quizzical until John leans across the table and presses his mouth against Sherlock's own. His lips are soft and taste of the wine and sauce that they've consumed. Better still, his tongue touches John's and the kiss, though relatively chaste, is warm and affectionate. John's hard pushed not to sigh and he draws back with some reluctance. "So, you got plans for tomorrow?"

"Unless there's an eight," says Sherlock, "nothing specific."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I'm leaving it your discretion," says Sherlock and runs his tongue over his bottom lip. "You've proved quite inventive so far, if a little over eager. I'm quite happy to help you tone up your skills."

John swallows his wine and looks back over the glass. "Tone up my skills? Is that what you're calling it?"

"I could demonstrate technique. I think you'd be quite good if you paid attention."

"If I..." John leans forward. "You said it was good. You said, no, you actually did enjoy it. I know you did." He lowers his voice. "I was there, remember? I felt it."

Sherlock grins and meets John half way, planting another kiss firmly against his doctor's lips. "As I said, you're quite the animal. But you know me, John. I expect excellence and I'm prepared to go through this thoroughly until you meet that standard."

John's grin is slow coming, but when it arrives, he giggles and pours the last of the wine into their glasses. "Well, you're never dull. And this has been a perfect date."

"I have to agree," says Sherlock and glances up as Angelo arrives with the dessert. He sets the dishes down on the table with a flourish and stands back.

"Chocolate mousse, with fiery ginger shortcake and orange peel," he says and gestures. "Enjoy."

John thanks him, but Sherlock is already leaning forward, his fork pushing at the soft sponge until something starts to give. He pushes a little further and John glances at the dish, puzzling over what Sherlock's discovered and he swallows hard at the realisation.

"Is that a rat?" he asks and Angelo shakes his head.

"Not in my restaurant. You must be mistaken."

"Yes," says Sherlock and parts the sponge carefully to reveal its contents. "He is mistaken, Angelo. It's not a rat, it's a mouse."

"What!"

"Calm down, it doesn't indicate an infestation," says Sherlock and leans in closer, magnifying glass in hand to examine the rodent. "It appears that this mouse has been preserved and placed within the sponge. Not here, it's evidently a dessert you've defrosted to serve tonight." He glances up. "Where do you get them from and does anyone have a point to make against you?"

Angelo starts to make louder noises, his hands rising as if to deflect the questions arriving from Sherlock but before any more can be issued, John clears his throat and gets to his feet. He draws several notes from his wallet and lays them down pleasantly on the table. He smiles at Angelo and reaches for Sherlock's hand, drawing the man up and away from the chocolate mouse.

"Well, thanks, Angelo. Dinner and a show. Couldn't have asked for more."

"But-"

"No, no, you've done quite enough and really, I couldn't have expected a finer outcome for the evening." He shakes Angelo's hand and squeezes Sherlock's fingers. "Got to be heading off now, I'm taking my boyfriend home."

And with a quick smile, he walks through the restaurant, several of the more curious diners watching the pair of them as they head to the door. Sherlock follows John outside, his magnifying glass once again put away neatly inside his coat.

"Boyfriend?" he asks and John nods as he turns sharply and looks up at the man.

"Well you said it," says John. "And he has always assumed."

"So he has," says Sherlock. "That was a case you made me walk away from."

"Not an eight," says John and steps closer. "And I do have to take you home. All that practice to get in, remember?" He leans up and grins as he kisses him. "I want to take you to bed, Sherlock. I'm entitled to take my boyfriend to bed and this," he gestures over his shoulder, "is not a crime scene."

Sherlock settles his hand on John's back and enjoys another taste of his doctor. "You're not wearing your lucky pants."

John giggles and tugs at his shirt slightly, hand on his hip to flash a stripe of white and a peek of scarlet. "I might just like the colour," he says. "Besides, I'm sleeping with a real, honest to God genius. That's pretty lucky in anyone's book."

Sherlock bites his lip. "Because you're sleeping with me?"

"Because I love you," says John simply and reaches for his hand again. "Reason enough, isn't it?"

Sherlock nods. "Sentiment," he murmurs and then smiles as they head for home. "Definitely dangerous."

 

-fin-


End file.
